Page images

ith a Guitar, to Jane

ides you o'er the sea rom your nativity. hanges have been run

erdinand and you begun

purse of love, and Ariel still

cked your steps and served your will. h humbler, happier lot,

all remembered not;

w, alas! the poor sprite is
oned, for some fault of his,
ody like a grave;—
you he only dares to crave,
s service and his sorrow,
le to-day, a song to-morrow.

rtist who this idol wrought ho all harmonious thought, a tree, while on the steep woods were in their winter sleep, ed in that repose divine he wind-swept Apennine; dreaming, some of Autumn past, some of Spring approaching fast, some of April buds and showers, some of songs in July bowers, all of love; and so this treethat such our death may be!in sleep, and felt no pain,

ive in happier form again:

m which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, artist wrought the loved Guitar;

1 taught it justly to reply all who question skilfully, language gentle as thine own; ispering in enamoured tone eet oracles of woods and dells, 'd summer winds in sylvan cells. r it had learnt all harmonies the plains and of the skies,


Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voicèd fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,

The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard, mysterious sound
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way.-
All this it knows; but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The Spirit that inhabits it.
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day:
But sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved Jane alone.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822]


WE are the music-makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,


ut of a fabulous story
shion an empire's glory:

n with a dream, at pleasure,
go forth and conquer a crown;
ee with a new song's measure
rample an empire down.

the ages lying

e buried past of the earth, Nineveh with our sighing, Babel itself with our mirth; erthrew them with prophesying he old of the new world's worth; ch age is a dream that is dying, ne that is coming to birth.

ath of our inspiration life of each generation;

ondrous thing of our dreaming earthly, impossible seeming-oldier, the king, and the peasant working together in one,

ur dream shall become their present, d their work in the world be done.

had no vision amazing

e goodly house they are raising; ey had no divine foreshowing the land to which they are going: on one man's soul it hath broken, light that doth not depart; his look, or a word he hath spoken, rought flame in another man's heart.

therefore to-day is thrilling

1 a past day's late fulfilling; id the multitudes are enlisted

the faith that their fathers resisted.


And, scorning the dream of tomorrow,

And bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.

But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!

The glory about us clinging

Of the glorious futures we see,

Our souls with high music ringing:

O men! it must ever be

That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
A little apart from ye.

For we are afar with the dawning

And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
Intrepid you hear us cry-

How, spite of your human scorning,
Once more God's future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
That ye of the past must die.

Great hail! we cry to the comers

From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers,
And renew our world as of yore;

You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
And things that we dreamed not before:
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers.
And a singer who sings no more.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]


THE God of Music dwelleth out of doors.
All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet,
Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet:
From organ-lofts in forests old he pours
A solemn harmony: on leafy floors

Music at Twilight

h Autumnal pipes he moves his feet, he tingling plectrum of the sleet


r keen beats out his thrilling scores.
e the reed unplucked beside the stream,
will stoop and fill it with the breeze;
e the viol's frame in secret trees,
ht, and it shall make a druid theme;
e the whispering shell on Nereid shores:
of Music dwelleth out of doors.

Edith M. Thomas [1854


music but for music's sake, use her touches can awake

that repose within the breast half-dead,
o follow where she loves to lead.
ous feelings come from days gone by!
s from far-off sources dim the eye!
h light fingers with sweet voices play
dies swell, pause, and melt away,
at every touch, at every tone,

f life hath glistened and hath gone.
Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]


HT, Twilight! evermore to hear
unded viols pleading to thy heart!
im we watch thy purple wings depart;
and know thy presence always near!

t thou on the pathway of the sun?
hy sister Night, while grief so pure
heaven and all its beauty seem too sure,
Do certain her oblivion.

awakes to turn thee from the South.

ger in the shadows thou hast drawn, ght cast dew before the feet of Dawn,

e lay her kiss on Music's mouth!

George Sterling [1869

« PreviousContinue »